


In the Shire Reckoning: 1438

by Thuri



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-26
Updated: 2003-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 07:39:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merry and child</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Shire Reckoning: 1438

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://kelbebop.livejournal.com/profile)[**kelbebop**](http://kelbebop.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Will have to use her services more often! Birthday mathom for [](http://sunhawkaerie.livejournal.com/profile)[**sunhawkaerie**](http://sunhawkaerie.livejournal.com/) Her request was: _another around 1439, please--I like the kiddies! :D_. She is the bestest beta a girl could ask for, and I hope she enjoys this! I go by the 2/3 assumption for hobbit ages. 9 to them is 6 to us.

Merry stopped in the doorway and the weariness of his journey disappeared. He said nothing, just smiled at the picture his nine-year-old daughter presented. Éowyn Brandybuck pushed needle through fabric slowly and carefully, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration. He recognized the gesture as one of his own, and unconsciously moistened his lips. She looked as if she was doing battle with the embroidery. "Hullo, Wynne," he said, coming into the room. "What are you doing?"

Her face lit up when she saw him, and she ran into his arms, dropping the embroidery to the ground. "Daddy! You're back!"

Merry dropped to his knees and held the small girl close to him. He hadn't known, when he and Estella had wed out of necessity, just how much he would get out of it. For he loved the child in his arms more than he'd thought possible. He loved Cariadoc and Esmeralda no less. And to know that his very presence could mean so much to her gratified him, though it scared him as well. To be that dear to anyone, when life was so uncertain . . .

"I missed you, sweeting," he said, as she pulled away.

"I missed you, too, Daddy. I had no one to talk to!" She sounded just the slightest bit indignant.

"What about Cary? Or Esme?"

She made a face. "Cary's a lad. And Esme's a baby."

"I'm a lad, too." Merry said with a smile.

"No, you're not. You're a grownup." She pulled him over to her chair and pushed him down into it, picking up the fallen embroidery. She held it out to him. "See what Aunt Dia taught me while you were gone?"

Merry looked down at the cloth she presented so proudly. Slightly crooked little x's formed letters and numbers across the linen. Flowers were being filled in around the edges.

"It's called a sampler," Éowyn told him seriously. "I like it, even if Mummy said it's boring."

He laughed. "She meant she thinks embroidery is boring, not you, Wynne. Your mum always used to hate sitting still long enough to do needlework. She was always tagging along with your uncle Freddy and his friends."

"Oh. Like Beryl," Éowyn said wisely. "She follows Cary and Faro everywhere." She took the embroidery hoop back from him and studied it. "I'd rather do this. Lads' games are silly."

Merry gathered his daughter into his lap and she snuggled against him. "What kinds of games do they play?" he asked, curious for the insight into his son's world.

Éowyn thought for a moment. "Mostly war," she said finally. "And Faro always says lasses can't play, because they don't fight. Then Beryl says of course they can, because the Lady Éowyn did. Then Faro gets mad and they pound each other."

Merry found himself grinning at the description of Pippin's two eldest together. Beryl and Faramir fought constantly. "What does Cary say?" he asked, wondering what his own son's opinion on the subject was.

"That I could play, since I'm Éowyn too, but I don't want to. That always makes Beryl even madder. But when they finally get around to starting the game, it's all fighting anyway. Beryl and Faro do that all the time already." She shifted, obviously bored with the talk of her cousins. "Daddy?"

"Aye?"

"Tell me the story. About her."

Éowyn may have had no interest in playing war, but she was endlessly fascinated by the human woman who shared her name. She'd begun asking for the story as soon as she was old enough to know where it came from.

And, to everyone's surprise and Merry's most of all, he'd told her. Oh, it was in the form of a tale and he barely mentioned his own involvement, but it was still the first time he'd willingly spoken of it. The tale had grown easier with the telling, and it was rare now that it bothered him.

As she'd grown older, Éowyn rarely asked to hear the story. She'd begun to understand that it was her father in it, and that he might not like the memory. Merry wondered if that wasn't why she didn't want to play war with the others.

"I'll tell you if you want me to, sweetheart. But why now?" he asked, a little surprised. "You haven't asked for this story in a long time." He shifted her into a more comfortable position, realizing with some regret that she'd soon be too big to sit in his lap.

"Because, Daddy, you've been to see her. And I didn't get to go along." Éowyn laid her head against his shoulder, looking up at him. He smiled, and began the tale.

"Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a beautiful princess. Her hair was long and golden, her eyes gray as steel. She lived in a wonderful land of flat plains and thick grasses, where everyone rode tall horses. And her name was Éowyn."

"Like me," said his daughter, as she always did at this part of the tale.

"Yes, sweeting, like you. Now this princess was not content to sit in the hall of her uncle and wait for the men to return. No, this princess could wield a blade as well as any man, and better than most. Her brother, Éomer, and her cousin, Theodred, laughed and teased her, asking who would want a wife that could best them in battle. But Éowyn held her head and her sword high and did not listen.

"When Éowyn was twenty-three and grown, for men come of age much faster than hobbits, darkness came to her land. Her cousin died and her uncle suffered a dark illness. And when he recovered , he and her brother rode off to war. She was left behind to guard the women and the children, the sick and the old."

"Poor Éowyn," she said softly.

He sighed. "It was when her uncle and Éomer returned from one battle to ride off for another that Éowyn took her chance. All she wanted now was to fight with valor, and die if she had to. Éowyn disguised herself as a man, using the name Dernhelm. She rode to battle with her king, taking his esquire with her. For the king's esquire was a _holbytla_ of the north, and had also been prevented from joining the army, due to his small size."

"And that was you," Éowyn said, reaching up and lightly touching his face.

"Yes, it was. But this story is about her. Dernhelm and the king's squire rode in secret with the army and so came to battle. There they did great deeds, deeds that song and story shall long remember. But both were wounded, and the princess most of all.

"Many feared she would die, but the new king of Gondor healed her. And, as she recovered, she met a man who did not tease her for her sword skill. A man who admired her, and loved her. Her own heart melted, and she loved him in return. And so the princess of Rohan wed the prince of Ithilien. And there they live now, in great happiness.

"The _holbytla_ came back to his home in the north. There he wed, and named his first child after the princess, for his daughter was also strong and fair. And the princess, learning of this, was honoured and sent the child a gift." At this, Merry pulled a package out of his pocket.

Éowyn's eyes had grown very large, for this last part of the story was new. "You told her about me?" she asked in a whisper.

"Of course, sweeting. And she said I must bring you with me the next time I journey to Rohan and Gondor. She sent you this." He handed the package to her.

Éowyn opened the box carefully. Inside was a carven figure of a horse and rider. Looking closely at it, she realized the rider was a woman, skirts shaped to blow about her legs. And in front of her sat a smaller figure, wearing armor Éowyn had seen her father wear on special occasions. "Oh, Daddy, this is wonderful!" she managed, nearly speechless with delight. "It's you and the white lady!"

Merry smiled, glad the gift was well received. "Aye. She thought you would like it, after hearing what your favourite story is. And she asked that you write to her, and be her friend." His thoughts turned back to the pure delight on the Lady Éowyn's face when he'd told her of his daughter.

Éowyn's eyes were shining as she turned the figure over and over in her hands, tracing the carven lines of hoof and mane, of dress and sword. "I will. Oh, thank you."

 

Merry left her some time later, his fingers stained with ink, a sealed parchment in his hands. The first letter from a young hobbit lass to her heroine.


End file.
